scratching the surface of the future
knock-out dropping back on us.
Shoving the dung up a hill
over foundation remains, past orange groves
over the rim then
we and it flop down into the cove,
catch a Popeye show on our own
and gasp at dodgem debris
and the child circling around cogs, tubes and springs,
his circles consistent
or perhaps enlarging around ours decreasing.
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